


Paris Is Considerably More Interesting Than I Expected

by kallistob



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Animagus Newt, Baker Graves, Dark Magic, F/M, Fluff, French, French Graves, Grindelwald is sketchy, Legilimency, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Loss, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Percival Graves is Not Fine, Smut, badass newt, loss of magic, memory recovery, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/kallistob
Summary: Two years after New York, everyone believes Mr. Graves is dead. Newt and Credence run into him in France by accident.





	1. La Rencontre

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU WANNA SEE WHAT FRENCH!GRAVES LOOKS LIKE: 
> 
> http://thegaypumpingthroughyourveins.tumblr.com/post/159349577495/fantasticgays-this-look#notes
> 
> I am super excited about this project, and I hope you guys will like it as much as I do <3

* * *

 

_1928._

 

Newt stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth, put on his coat and grabbed his suitcase.

“Credence!” He called. “I left you some money on the table. I’m going to the _Galeries Lafayette_ , see if Mr. Boyer is there.”

Credence nodded at him from the sofa where he was reading, and Newt smiled at his apprentice.

“I’ll see you tonight."

 

They were staying at a hotel in Paris, wandering the city in search of another supposed expert when it came to magical creatures. Newt absolutely wanted to talk to him about the Beast of the Gévaudan and other mythical legends they knew were of magical origins.

America was behind them. It had been two years now since the debacle with the Obscurus in New York - and a year and nine months since Newton Scamander found Credence Barebone residing in his suitcase, occupying the freezing landscape in his Obscurus form.  He’d taken Credence under his wing, refusing to tell anyone about his discovery lest Credence be executed, and offered to teach the boy.

Under Newt’s watchful gaze, Credence had grown. He’d learned to be more confident, daring to speak his mind now that he did not have to fear a beating at every wrong turn of phrase or change in his posture.

The Obscurus was still within him. Newt did not know of a way to separate the dark force from his body without it resulting in Credence’s immediate death, like he had done with the Sudanese girl. Instead, Credence had to learn how to control it. His magic, so far repressed, found an outlet in the spells Credence practiced, in the knowledge he gained, and the Obscurus shifted, becoming a calm, soothing presence he could call to whenever he felt lonely - but it was not an enemy.

Credence hadd let his hair grow. It curled around his face, giving it a gentleness he thought didn’t feel like him.

Once he was done with his chapter, Credence stepped outside.

-

Paris was a beautiful city, bustling with life. Credence walked around without any particular destination in mind, enjoying the warmth of the sun and observing the Parisians around him, trying to make sense of the conversations he heard. Newt spoke French quite well, but Credence struggled with the language. He managed the basics polite greetings and simpler sentences, but had to ask Newt for help with complex ones. He’d taken to carrying a little dictionary with him. Fortunately, they weren’t planning on staying in Paris for long. It was just another step in their worldwide journey. Newt planned to take him to India afterwards. 

At noon, Credence’s stomach rumbled. Seeing an open bakery, he decided he’d buy a sandwich and give the rest of his money to beggars outside the nearby church. _Le Fournil_ seemed like a popular place. A long queue of people were waiting their turn inside, and Credence dutifully fell in line behind an old lady with a frilly hat. He quickly decided on what he would order, repeating the phrase in his head a couple of times while the queue slowly advanced. His mind drifted off, thinking about the books he would read this afternoon, and the spells he could practice.

Which is why he was entirely unprepared when the cashier called upon him and Credence found himself face to face with Percival Graves.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Mr. Graves said, perfectly at ease in his white apron, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a professional smile plastered on his face. “ _Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?_ ”

Credence opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out.

Credence was _sure_ it was him. He felt the Obscurus rise, writhing under the surface of his skin for the first time in months, and he bit his tongue hard to remain focused. 

Mr. Graves looked - different. His face was the same: dark heavy brows, thin lips and five o’clock shadow on his jaw. The way he held himself was the same: tall and proud, maintaining eye contact with Credence as he patiently waited for an answer. His hair was no longer slicked and shaved on the sides but long and brushed back, a bit ruffled as if Mr. Graves had the habit of passing his hand in it. He looked exhausted, eyes ringed with fatigue, but they were warm and kind. He looked more human than Grindelwald wearing his skin had ever been. 

He was also amused.

“ _Mon garcon, je sais que je suis beau, mais il va me falloir une réponse. Tu n’es pas le seul dans la boulangerie._ "

Credence had no clue what the man just said, but judging by his smirk and the giggles he heard behind him, he was currently making a fool of himself. Cheeks flaming, Credence muttered a, “ _Un sandwich au jambon, s’il vous plaît._ ”

“ _Ce sera tout?_ ”

“ _Oui, merci._ ”

Mr. Graves dismissed him and greeted the next customer.

Credence left the bakery clutching the paper bag in his hand, mind reeling with what he’d just discovered.

Mr. Graves was in France, working in a No-Maj bakery with apparently no clue as to who Credence was. Or if he did, then he was a very good actor. His French was flawless, as if - as if he’d lived there all his life.

A perfect No-Maj. A perfect normal middle-aged man with a normal job.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him.

Credence resolved to come see the man again. His mind kept flashing with images of his Mr. Graves, confidence and power and domination written all over him and this Mr. Graves with his smirk, his white apron, his long hair and the little splatters of flour on his forearms.

He didn’t get much work done that afternoon.

- 

“You saw _who_?” Newt asked.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence said. He was pacing the room, unable to keep himself in place, body thrumming with energy. “He’s alive. He works in a No-Maj bakery on the _Charles De Gaulle_ avenue.”

Newt placed his tea cup back on the table in front of him, his frowned deepening.

“Are you sure it’s him?” He asked carefully.

“I _know_ it’s him. I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

“Maybe he has a long lost twin no one knew about,” Newt muttered. “Credence. You do know the man was declared dead.”

“They never found a body,” Credence insisted. “You told me yourself there was no way to know what Grindelwald could have done with him. Now we do.”

“Dumping him in France? For what purpose?" 

“I don't know. But we really do live in a world of magic, don’t we? Mr. Graves is alive.” Credence sat down, looking at Newt expectantly. “What do we do?”

Newt cleared his throat and looked away. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll go see him tomorrow. Then we’ll figure things out.”

“He’s alive,” Credence repeated.

“I heard.”

-

The next day saw Newt leaving the hotel, alone, around noon.

He was wary. It was entirely possible that Credence was misguided - had confused someone who looked like Mr. Graves with him, although that didn’t mean anything good. Newt had thought that Credence was over his history with Mr. Graves. He still felt a bit bitter about having been condemned to death without so much as a fair trial, despite knowing that the person who put him on the chair was not the real Director of Magical Security. But, if Grindelwald could impersonate the man so easily, then Newt reasoned that the real Graves couldn’t have been that much different, and he was not sure he wanted a man like him anywhere near Credence again.

Unfortunately, this was important to Credence. So he braced himself and walked into the bakery, hoping against all odds that Credence was wrong. Because if he was right, then it opened the gates to a myriad of questions. Newt wasn’t sure he was quite ready to deal with a moody wizard who did not know who he was.

" _Bonjour,"_   a familiar voice said, and Newt felt his heart sink. “ _Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?”_

-

“You were right,” Newt said once he stepped into their room. “It’s him.”

Credence paused in the middle of his levitation charm, the pillows hovering in the air in front of his face. “I knew that.”

“One of his coworkers called him Percival,” Newt took off his coat and sent it over to the coat rack with a flick of his wand. He leaned against the back of the sofa and sighed. “If I had any doubts, they’re all gone now.”

“So?” Credence was expectant. “What do we do?”

“Nothing?” Newt said dryly.

“What?” Credence gaped. “We can’t do that! Mr. Graves is believed to be dead. But he’s not! He’s right there!”

Newt rubbed at his temples, knowing Credence was right but not wanting to get involved in the clusterfuck that this promised to be.

“He needs help,” Credence said.

“He looked happy and healthy enough to me.”

“Newt.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Newt offered unhappily. “We’ll try to see if he remembers anything at all. And if he doesn't want to join our world at all, after what he learns - provided he doesn't mistake us for complete nutters first - then we will not force him to. That’s all I can offer for now.”

Credence smiled at him. “I’ll do it,” he offered. “I’ll lead him here. Just tell me what I need to say.”

“Something that would hold his attention enough to make him want to follow a complete stranger, to some place he doesn’t know?” Newt thought for a minute, then smiled. “Ah.”

-

 _"Tiens? Bonjour,_ ” Mr. Graves greeted him. “ _Ce sera quoi?_ ”

" _Je voudrai une baguette, votre nom, ainsi que l’heure et la date à laquelle vous seriez disponibles pour qu’on se voit en dehors du travail_ ," Credence dutifully repeated what Newt made him practice.

Mr. Graves stared at him for a moment and then he laughed. It was the first genuine smile Credence ever saw on his face, and he found himself awed. He flushed. He’d forgotten how dangerously handsome the older man was.

“Right,” Mr. Graves said once he caught his breath. “Okay. _Tenez, votre monnaie_. American?”

“Yes sir,” Credence said.

“I’m Percival. Nice to meet you. My shift ends at seven tonight, wait for me?”

Credence nodded vigorously. “ _Avec plaisir. Bonne journée, Monsieur_.”

 

-

When seven o’clock rang, Credence was waiting outside the bakery, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Mr. Graves came out a few moments later, wearing a dark coat and a hat atop his head. The clothes looked old, but they fit together neatly.

Still. It was the first time Credence found himself better dressed than Mr. Graves, and the feeling was odd, to say the least.

Graves pulled out a box of matches from his pocket and lit the cigarette he held between his lips, taking a long, slow drag as he looked at Credence.

“So?” He asked, smiling. “Where is a beautiful young man like you taking me?”

He was -

Was he _flirting_? Credence felt his face heat again and he ducked his head. Why would he flirt?

_What had Newt made him say?_

But Credence was here for a reason, so he willed his heartrate to calm down and took Graves’ arm, guiding him away from the crowd into narrow streets until they reached the back entrance of the place he and Newt were staying at. On the way Graves asked him about his name and tried to make small talk, but Credence was distracted. He needed to _know_.

“A hotel? Really?” Mr. Graves asked, looking at the façade. He was impressed at the boy’s boldness.

“Come on in,” Credence said, stepping aside, and Graves followed after throwing his cigarette on the ground. They climbed up the stairs until they reached number twenty three, and Credence hid the lock from view as he quickly muttered an Alohomora to open the door. He had no idea where the actual keys for the room where, and he doubted Newt knew either.

“Tea? Coffee? Chocolate?” Credence offered, gesturing to the kettle.

“No, thank you,” Mr. Graves said. He looked at Credence intently, taking off his hat and then his coat.

Credence gulped when Mr. Graves made a move to unbutton his shirt, opening his mouth to protest.

This wasn’t - he didn’t bring Mr. Graves here to - oh, where was Newt - Mr. Graves stepped closer, and Credence _saw_ the column of Graves’ throat and the wisp of dark hair just peeking out of his white shirt and he was speechless. He’d never seen Mr. Graves quite so underdressed.

So _tempting_. He licked his lips. 

Graves placed his hands on Credence’s hips, and Credence jolted at the contact.

“So? Why am I here?” Mr. Graves asked, voice low, teeth grazing Credence’s throat.

“Mr-”

“Percival.”

“Percival -” Credence stammered. Mr. Graves loomed over him, the warmth of his hands making it hard for the boy to concentrate. “I - I just wanted to -”

“Yeah? What do you want?” Mr. Graves asked, placing an open mouthed kiss on Credence’s neck, sending goosebumps all over his body. Credence let out a little _oh_ and, encouraged, Graves continued to slowy kiss his neck, making him shiver again.

He gripped Graves’ shirt to anchor himself. Graves' hands were rubbing soothing circles over his clothes, massaging him, making warmth settle deep inside his bones. He instinctively bared his neck to Graves and the other man hummed in satisfaction. Graves stepped impossibly closer, aligning their hips, and Credence’s eye flew open when he felt a strong thigh rub against his crotch. He was acutely aware of his own throbbing cock, more so than he’d ever been in his life. His head was spinning, and Graves hadn’t even properly touched him yet. 

He did not realize he was trembling until Graves pointed it out. 

“Are you alright? You're shaking like a leaf.”

“What?” Credence asked, wondering why in the name of God Graves had stopped.

“Are you alright?" Graves repeated, his eyes impossibly kind and concerned. "I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with." 

Credence’s only response was to grab him by the lapels of his shirt and kiss him, hard and desperate. Graves smiled against his lips, feeling bolder. He untucked Credence’s shirt from his pants, his hands slipping below to touch the soft skin of his stomach and drifting higher. 

“Percival - ah-”

“Sensitive?” Graves murmured, curious as he started pinching the young man's nipples, teasing him.

“Mr. - Mr. Graves -” Credence panted, “Please -”

Graves stopped. “What did you call me?”

“Uh?” Credence said, eloquently.

“Who is Mr. Graves?”

“He’s -” _You_ , Credence wanted to say, the excitement of their previous activities dulling a bit. Credence didn’t want it to _dull_ , even though sex was _not_  the reason he’d brought Mr. Graves here at all. So he smiled reassuringly and said, “Nothing. Continue.”

“I won’t have you saying another man’s name while I’m touching you, boy,” Graves said, but he did step closer.

“I’m not a boy,” Credence said dangerously. He took Graves’ hand and placed it over his crotch, letting the older man feel his arousal. “Don't treat me like one.”

"Alright, then." 

Graves dropped to his knees in front of him. 

“Oh, god,” Credence breathed, eyes wide.

Graves looked up at him, smirking, his hands gripping Credence’s thighs. He nuzzled at the seam of Credence’ pants, looking perfectly at ease, like he belonged there, his mouth close to another man’s cock. Credence swallowed.

Graves placed a kiss on his inner thigh and finally, finally brought his hands up to open Credence’s pants. He slowly slipped the fabric down Credence’s legs, placing more kisses over his skin before going back up and kissing the head of Credence’s cock through his underwear. Credence bucked his hips.

“You okay?” Graves asked, and Credence let out a little disbelieving laugh.

Okay? He wasn’t okay. He was in heaven.

He gripped Graves’ long hair and guided the man’s head back to the task at hand.

“Bossy,” Graves murmured as he divested Credence of his underwear. He let out a low whistle at the sight of Credence's hard cock. 

“ _Eh bien… Regardez-moi ça._   _Si j’avais su, je me serais mis à genoux bien plus tôt_.”

Credence moaned, a combination of both hearing the man speak in French and the fact that _his hand was on his cock_.

Mr. Graves stroked him, once, twice, and when Credence made a frustrated noise he wrapped his lips over his cock and swirled his tongue around the head _._ Credence's mouth fell open and he whimpered, speech pattern failing him.

“Oh, yes, that feels good - more, that's it- ”

Graves pulled back. Credence took his face between his hands and leaned down to kiss him, tasting himself on Graves' tongue. When he’d calmed down a bit, he nodded. The other man wordlessly knelt to take Credence in his mouth again.

Graves was _good_. What he was unable to fit in his mouth he steadily stroked with his hand, all the while using his tongue as best he could and driving Credence mad. He tried to take him deeper each time and Credence gently encouraged him, pushing Graves' head down until he gagged. His eyes watered and saliva dribbled down his chin, but it only seemed to make him more determined to suck Credence off. 

The young man came with a groan, curling up around Graves as he swallowed everything he had to offer.

Graves got up, wincing at the pain in his knees. He was a bit too old for this - but it was entirely worth it to see Credence staring at him in awe as he caught his breath, coming down from what had to be a very good orgasm. Graves felt impossibly smug.

“Well,” he said, smiling. “I could use a friendly cup of tea now.”

“Wait,” Credence said. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. I’m afraid I rather alarmingly came in my pants. I tend to do that when I’m sucking a guy off.”

Credence blushed beet red and Graves winked at him.

“Take a seat,” Credence said once he’d tucked himself back into his pants. “I’ll see about making that tea.”

“Wait, Credence,” Graves called, and Credence shivered at hearing his name again in _that_ voice. “Do you have a bathroom? I need to clean myself.”

“Oh - right. It’s this door.”

“Thanks.”

Credence put the kettle on.

Then he slumped down on the first chair he found.

That was decidedly _not_ what he’d pictured would happen when he brought Mr. Graves in.

-

“So?” Graves said after he'd finished his tea. “Who is this Mr. Graves? An old lover?”

Credence sighed and looked away, his hands clutching his own cup. “It’s you.”

“What?” Graves raised his eyebrows. “Did you give me a name in your fantasies, boy?”

“Stop calling me that,” Credence said. He raked a hand through his hair, dishevelling it. “What’s your family name?”

“Lefevre,” Graves said without missing a beat.

“And has it always been this way?”

“I guess so. It was on the identity card they gave me when I got out of the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Credence prompted worriedly.

“Nasty car accident. They patched me up. It’s in the past now,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

“And the name Graves doesn’t ring a bell at all?” Credence insisted, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“It just makes me think of a graveyard, but I think that’s not the answer you’re expecting.”

“No,” Credence said, voice small. “It’s not.”

Silence fell. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Graves finally asked. 

Credence shook his head, though his eyes stung. Mr. Graves didn’t remember him at all. They'd met before Grindelwald, and he didn't...

But...

“Wait here,” he said, suddenly determined. “I have something I want to show you.”

Credence rummaged through a bag in the bedroom, getting frustrated when he didn’t find what he was looking for. “ _Accio picture!_ ”

An old black and white photo flew into his hands. Credence clutched it close to his chest and came back into the living room, where Mr. Graves was sitting. He put the picture between Graves’ hands and asked, “Do you know this man?”

It was a photo of himself taken by Miss Tina. She said she’d needed it for their archives, but she gave him a copy. Credence always kept it close. It had been his reminder that magic was real and that it could be used for good things.

“It’s you.”

“Yes.”

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said, voice strangely tight. “Are my eyes deceiving me or is this picture moving?”

_Oh._

Credence in the picture peered up at Graves. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here, with his clenched fists, his bitten lips and the way he rocked slightly on his feet.

And Graves could see it all.

“I’m not hallucinating, am I?” Mr. Graves said.

Credence looked at him, trying to search his face for clues as to what Mr. Graves was feeling, but the man’s face was blank. Swallowing, Credence just nodded.

“How is this possible?”

“It’s - magic,” Credence said softly.

“Magic,” Graves repeated.

“Yes, Mr. Graves. Do you want to see?”

Percival looked at him, then back at the moving picture he held between his hands. Slowly, he aquiesced.

Credence brought his hands close together, forming a little cocoon with them, and concentrated.

When he opened them, a small ball of blue fire was hovering above his skin, Credence entirely unperturbed by the heat. The room was dark, night falling outside, and the glow of magic reflected itself in Graves’ eyes. Then Credence gently blew on the fire and made it disappear.

Silence reigned in the room, and Graves got up. “It’s late,” he said. “I should leave. It is clear your friend is not coming here anytime soon.”

“Mr. Graves, wait -”

Graves held up a hand to stop him and Credence automatically fell silent.

“I don’t know how you pulled _that_ one off, kid,” he said gruffly, “But consider me impressed. Bravo.”

“It wasn’t a trick,” Credence protested. “Magic is real.”

Percival grabbed his coat, his hat and put them on again.

“See you around, boy.”

He opened the door and left with one last smile at Credence.

-

 Graves was distracted as he descended the stairs. That had been… A weird evening, but at least he’d gotten laid. Sort of. And it was more interesting than staying at home alone in his little flat. He saw someone silhouetted in the street lights of the exit - the door was opened - and took off his hat in a polite gesture before stopping in his tracks.

Credence was at the door, when Graves had left him upstairs just seconds before.

“Magic is real, Mr. Graves,” Credence said in a rush. “And you’re not who you think you are.”

Graves stared. “What are you on?”

“Do you believe me?”

“Look, Credence, it’s been fun and all but I’m really tired and I need to work tomorrow so if you could let me pass - “

“Do you believe me?” Credence said, suddenly agitated. The ball of fire appeared again in his right hand and Graves stepped back. “I _am_ magic, Mr. Graves. And so are you.”

“No,” Graves laughed. “I’m just a humble baker. And my name is Percival Lefevre. Now if you’d please excuse me.”

Graves tried to step forward, only to find that his feet wouldn’t move. His eyes widened and he looked down. His shoes looked utterly normal, he was just paralyzed from the waist down.  

“This is not funny,” he said, cold dread filling his heart. "Release me." 

“Magic, Mr. Graves. You could shake off that spell if you wanted to."

“Fucking -- let me _go._ " If he couldn’t move, all he had to defend himself were his fists, his teeth and his words, and he didn’t know how many other _tricks_ the boy had up his sleeve.

“I can’t do that,” Credence said, almost pleadingly. “You’re too important.”

“Important to whom? To you?” Graves struggled to get his feet to _move_ , fighting a losing battle against Credence’s partial body bind.  

“Me,” Credence acquiesced. “As well as lots of others. You’re an important man, Mr. Graves.”

“For the last time,” Graves snapped, having had enough, “I am not this guy! Let me go! You’re not making any sense!”

“I can’t,” Credence said simply.

Credence took a stick out of his pocket and waved it at Graves, and suddenly Graves found he couldn’t move his arms anymore than he could his feet. His heart rate doubled. He was utterly defenseless, for reasons he couldn’t explain because _nothing made sense_. How was the boy _doing_ this?

“Credence,” he called, trying to sooth his voice into something that did not sound utterly terrified, “We can talk about this. Untie me.”

“Do you promise to listen and not leave again?”

“Yes. Whatever you want. Please.”

“What the hell is going on here?” A third, slightly bewildered voice asked.

A man was standing behind Credence at the door, suitcase in hand and unruly ginger hair atop his head and right now, he was the most beautiful sight Graves had ever seen.

Then the stranger said, “Credence? What are you doing?” and Graves’ mouth went dry.

Fuck. Of course they knew each other.

“Tell him to let me go,” Graves tried anyway, looking at the stranger. “That boy’s out of his mind.”

“I am not!” Credence protested.

The redhead waved another weird stick at Percival, and his entire body relaxed as he found he could move his limbs again freely. Graves eyed the exit door and, when no one stopped him, rushed towards it and stepped into the night. Credence watched him go.

Newt turned towards his apprentice and asked, “Credence? What exactly happened there?”

“I showed him magic and he didn’t believe me.”

“You did what?!”

“I didn’t plan on doing it so soon!” Credence made a helpless gesture. “It just kind of - happened! I showed him Tina’s picture of me and forgot that in his world it wasn’t supposed to be _moving_.”

“And then what?”

“Then I showed him more and he insisted on taking his leave and said I was delusional.” Credence said. “He wouldn't listen to me. He really has no memory of magic, Newt.”

“Great,” Newt muttered. “Bloody brilliant. He probably won’t want anything to do with us now. I’d say that’s for the best, except now that he knows magic we’re breaking the law, because there’s a muggle out there who knows magic exists even though he’s really not a muggle but a wizard stripped of his powers.” Newt took a deep breath. “And now we’re involved in this whether we like it or not.”

Credence seemed to shrink on himself the more Newt spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Newt said, voice softer. “I suggested the meeting. I should have come home earlier.” He straightened up. “What’s done is done. We’ll need to figure out how to go from there. You let me handle this, Credence, alright? No more scaring him off.”

Credence nodded guiltily.

“Why were you so late?” Credence enquired as they climbed up the stairs. Newt’s eyes lit up.

“Oh - I found Mr. Boyer! He agrees that the Beast of the Gévaudan was a werewolf, one of the first original breeds - it must have been so powerful. He has a library full of books about creatures from the five continents, some of which I’ve never heard of! He believes the Dame Blanche is a case of amateur exorcism gone wrong on an innocent ghost. Did you know even muggles can summon her if they want to? It’s quite fascinating. And Lutins are a special specie of gnomes that only exists in France. And - ”

Credence smiled as Newt drifted off, talking about his new discoveries with something akin to childlike wonder.

 

A few streets away, the former Director of Magical Security lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Magic, uh...”

The darkness didn’t offer any reply.

* * *

 

 


	2. Curiosité

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy reading <3 
> 
> This chapter was a joy and I hope you'll love it as much as I do. 
> 
> Thank you to Funkspiel for Beta-reading !

* * *

 

Graves inhaled the smoke, trying to sooth his nerves.

He had no idea when he’d first taken on the habit. It was just a thing. His pack of cigarettes was a comforting, familiar presence in his pocket: the routine of using them helped center him. Considering last night’s events, he felt like he needed it even more than usual.

It plagued him. He’d tried to find a logical explanation for Credence’s antics. Something that made sense. Something scientific, rational. Something that could be analysed, replicated, reproduced. Like a magic trick. But his mind came up blank. He was by no means an expert, but he’d seen nothing. No hidden lighter up Credence’s sleeve to pull off that fire, no nylon threads hanging from the ceiling to tie him up and prevent him from leaving _,_ and then there was that moving picture…

Graves stomped on his cigarette. He’d just stay far away from those people, focus on his normal job and on saving money to move out of his shitty apartment someday. That sounded like a safe, reasonable plan. Paris was a big city, after all; unless these two guys actively sought him out - and even then - chances were few that they’d meet each other again.

Mind cleared, he sent an “ _À demain_ ” to the coworker smoking outside with him and left, his feet automatically leading him on the familiar path to his flat. He prayed that the books he had at home would provide enough distraction for him to stop mulling over what he’d witnessed.

-

He'd reached a narrow alley a few doors away from where he stayed when a soft _meow_ made him stop in his tracks. A lean, ginger cat was peeking out at him from inside a disused cardboard box on the pavement. Graves crouched down carefully, holding out one hand for the cat to sniff. It approached slowly, getting accustomed with Graves’ smell and when it was close enough it headbutted Graves’ clenched fist. Graves scratched it behind the ears and the cat purred, making him smile softly.

“Hey there.”

The cat rubbed itself against Graves’ knee and disappeared behind him. Graves let out a surprised yelp when he felt a weight atop his back. The cat had jumped on his shoulders and was now clinging to him, too heavy for Graves’ liking.

“Hush now, none of that. Let’s get you down.” Graves tried to shake the animal off of him but it planted its claws deep into Graves’ coat. “Oh, come on. Off you pop. I can’t bring animals home.”

The cat meowed again, softer, pleading, and Graves resigned. Guess he’d have company tonight.

The cat was still perched proudly on him, somehow holding on fearlessly when Graves opened the door leading to a dingy corridor. He climbed the stairs up to the first floor two at a time and reached number twenty.

“Welcome home,” he said to the animal as it got off him to start exploring the place curiously.

There wasn’t much to see. A bed, a table and a kitchenette. The bathroom consisted of toilet, a sink and a small shower stall that failed to deliver warm water most of the time. It was the best Graves could do.

“I hope you like ham,” Graves called. “It’s that and peas tonight.” He turned on the gas in the kitchen, placing a pan above it and dropping the contents of a tin can in it. He let it heat while he placed a slice of ham onto a plate and deposited it on the floor, calling the cat to him. It came running and swallowed the food eagerly, then meowed for more.

“Sorry. That’s all you get. I do have milk, though.”

The cat wrinkled its nose in disgust, as if understanding him. Graves blinked. Then it jumped on the table and in true cat fashion started sniffing at the remaining slices of ham Graves hadn’t placed back in the fridge yet. Graves shooed it off the table.

He ate in silence, washed the dishes and prepared himself for the night. He found the cat in his own bed, eyes closed and looking right at home atop Graves’ covers. Graves grabbed the book on his nightstand and settled down himself.

“Want me to read to you? _Une saison en enfer_ , Rimbaud. French poetry.”

The cat’s ears twitched, and so Graves read.

“... _Ma vie est usée. Allons ! feignons, fainéantons, ô pitié ! Et nous existerons en nous amusant, en rêvant amours monstres et univers fantastiques, en nous plaignant et en nous querellant les apparences du monde, saltimbanque, mendiant, artiste, bandit_ …”

The cat yawned after the second poem, so Graves took off his reading glasses and turned off the light. The cat stretched and stepped closer to him, curling up in Graves’ lap and purring. Graves passed his fingers through the soft fur and stared at the ceiling.

He felt calm.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the ball of furr sitting on him. The cat perked up, looking at him almost expectantly, so Graves elaborated.

“I met… A couple of weird guys yesterday,” he started. “I mean, it all started normally. For me, anyway. Young guy brings me to his flat, we make out, I get him off - ow!” The cat bristled on his bed, claws digging into Graves’ hips through his pajama top. “Hey! That hurts!” 

The cat hissed at him and Graves looked at it bemusedly, holding its paws between his hands to prevent further damage on his person. “What’s wrong with you? Can we get back to the purring?”

The cat continued to glare at him but slowly settled down.

“...Right. Anyway. So it’s all going well but then the guy - Credence, his name was. Weird name, by the way - the guy made actual fire appear in his hands and showed me a picture of himself except he was _moving_ in the picture,” Graves said in a rush, “And when I tried to leave because that was _weird_ he stopped me by tying me up except - except he had nothing visible to tie me up! Nothing! Just a wooden stick in his hand and I couldn’t move and I couldn’t get away and he told me I needed to stay because I was important.” Graves raked a hair through his hair. “Whatever the hell _that_ means and then this other guy comes in and I’m thinking, yes Percy, you’re saved except of course they knew each other but the other guy still freed me and -”

The cat meowed.

Graves halted in his speech. He looked at the animal and realized he’d stopped petting it. Resuming his movements, he forced himself to calm down by concentrating on the warm, living presence in his lap.

“- And I ran away,” Graves finished. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Silence reigned in the room for a moment, broken only by the cat’s soft purrs and the sound of Graves breathing.

“He told me I was important,” Graves murmured. “Called me by another name. Graves. Sounds ominous, don’t you think?

“He - seemed to know me. As in, really _know_ me. I don’t even know myself. Not since the accident. Now I can’t get this whole thing out of my head and I’m not sure if it’s solely due to the fact that I was scared out of my wits. Because…” The cat stopped purring. “Because for a second there… When he made that fire glow, it felt - beautiful. Real. Almost _familiar_. It looked like the most natural thing in the world for both me and him. And then I remembered that it was _not_ in fact natural at all and I did what anyone would do.”

The cat didn’t reply. Graves hit his pillow to fluff it up, adding a bit more strength than what was necessary before laying down fully on the mattress. “Anyway. Good night, cat. I’ll think of a name for you tomorrow.”

 _Meow,_ the cat said, placing its paws on Graves’ face only seconds after he’d closed his eyes. Graves grunted. The cat jumped off the bed and hurried to the window, sitting below it before looking back at Graves. _Meow._

“Oh. You want to leave?”

_Meow._

“Alright.” Graves left the warmth of his bed reluctantly and padded across the room towards the entrance of his flat, the cat following behind him. Graves let the cat go, accompanying it to the corridor and opening up the door leading to the outside.

“Come back, okay?” he called, trying not to feel disappointed as his temporary friend disappeared in the darkness. He failed. 

A distant _meow_ echoed back to him. 

 

 

-

 

A few streets away, a ginger cat closed its eyes and concentrated. Seconds later, a man stood where the cat had been, swaying slightly on his feet, his hair as messy as the cat’s fur.

Newt Scamander sighed. He’d meant to observe the baker unguarded, not sure how to approach him after last night’s encounter with Credence and it seemed he had been right. The man was skittish and wary, rightfully so.

He was also, undoubtedly, Percival Graves. He didn’t resemble the man Newt had seen in New York, not even closely. For the first time Newt wondered how no one noticed Grindelwald’s impersonation if the two Graves were so different. For God’s sake, this man fed him ham. The other one whipped him with lightning until Newt couldn’t stand.

And Graves clearly _knew_ magic, albeit on a subconscious level. He also feared it, like any muggle would because he couldn’t understand it. Whatever Grindelwald had done to Graves, he’d been thorough. And unless they talked to him, they had no way of knowing how far the damage went. Identity loss, memory loss - had Grindelwald simply tweaked Graves’ memories? Did he obliviate him entirely? And what about Graves’ magic? From what Newt saw, the man didn’t seem to have any abilities left in him but was it blocked? Obliterated? Or just not being used because Graves didn’t know it existed within him?  

Newt resolved to properly communicate with him tomorrow. They wouldn’t get anywhere by scaring or stalking Graves, they had to _talk_. Give the man a proper choice. Once he knew, it would be up to him whether or not to reconcile with his past. Newt grimaced. It wasn’t going to be easy. He already knew what Graves would do; he’d never seen a muggle walk away from magic. Jacob was proof of that. And Graves… Graves had a whole past, a whole _identity_ to conquer. Who would say no to that? And if Graves took that path, then Newt and Credence would have to help him. Credence wanted to, Newt had seen that much. He wanted Graves to remember him. To remember _himself_. He wanted to see his Mr. Graves again.

Speaking of which…

_Young guy brings me to his flat, we make out, I get him off…_

Newt was going to have a very serious conversation with Credence about that particular sentence he’d heard from Graves’ lips _._

 

xXx

 

Graves woke up the next day having managed to sleep more than four consecutive hours, which was a feat in itself. He sent his silent thanks to the cat, sure that its presence had calmed him.

He never slept well. He didn’t really know why. He took a long time to fall asleep, his mind restless, and when he did sleep he had nightmares. He never remembered them but they left him gasping, hands reaching towards something he couldn’t touch, heart beating wildly in anticipation of a danger that didn’t come. 

Graves got up, hissing at the coldness of the floor beneath his feet, and stepped into the adjourning bathroom. The shower was cold, as usual, but it at least had the merits of chasing the remnants of sleep from his body and mind. He shaved, brushed his long hair back and prepared himself for the day.  

 

xXx

 

“Mr. Graves!”

Graves took in the sight of the man in a blue coat hurrying towards him and pulled a 180 to walk in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Graves, wait!”

“My name,” Graves hissed through gritted teeth, “Is Percival Lefevre. I don’t want to talk to you or your _friend_.” So much for thinking they’d leave him alone.

“Please,” Newt said, stepping in front of him and blocking his path. Graves glared at him. He’d had a shitty day with quite a few annoying clients at the bakery, the kind of which couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses and admit that maybe he was right about the price of the baguette because he _worked there_ and no, yelling at him wouldn’t change anything.

But the younger man apparently wasn't intimidated because when Graves bypassed him and continued on his way, he simply stepped in time next to him. Graves paused.

“Listen, Mr... ?”

“Scamander. Newt Scamander. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Newt offered his hand to Graves, the other one awkwardly holding his case close to his chest. Graves accepted the gesture reluctantly. The man did help him last time.

“What do you,” he asked as he reflectively pulled his cigarette pack out of his pocket and lit one, “or your other friend, for that matter, want with me?”

“I want to apologize,” Newt said in a rush. “Credence is my apprentice. He’s still young and he tends to get - excited about things, and he might have scared you away but he really didn’t mean any harm.”

Graves raised an eyebrow. “Apprentice in what?”

“Um - ma- zoology. I’m a zoologist, I study animals and Credence helps me.”

“And you’re in France because…?”

Newt couldn’t help it - he smiled. Mr. Graves was a cop through and through, even if he didn’t realize it. “Because I wanted information on the various legendary creatures that exist here.”

“Right. Well.” Graves let his cigarette fall to the floor. “Apology accepted, Mr. Scamander. Now I’d appreciate it if you left me alone. I’ve had a long day.” Graves hurried away but Newt followed him.

“Wait,” the zoologist called. “Let me treat you to a cup of coffee. Or tea. Anything you want.”

“I want to go home,” Graves said.

“Then let’s go home,” Newt said, unbothered. Graves stared at him. The man kept his head down, a tight smile pulling at his lips but when Graves provided no answer he looked up at him with wide eyes. “I mean - it’s just a suggestion, of course, but I do have a few things I’d like to discuss with you and if it might make you more comfortable to be at your home then I don’t see why -”

“I believe you mentioned coffee?” Graves interrupted him. “Did you have a place in mind?”

“Oh.” Newt looked surprised that he accepted the offer. Graves thought anything was better than to let these guys know where he lived, since clearly Newt wasn’t going to let him go until he got what he wanted. ”I’m afraid we arrived barely a couple of days ago, so I don’t know much about the city yet. Lead the way.”

Graves just walked into the first bar he found and ordered a cup of black coffee with sugar.

“Orange juice?” He asked Newt, looking at the glass in his hand. “Really?”

“Better for your health than coffee, Mr. Lefevre,” Newt said simply. Graves grunted and led them to a little corner away from prying eyes and ears.

“So.” Graves took a sip of his coffee. “I’m all yours. What did you want to tell me?”

“Hum.” Newt decided to start with a simple question. “Have you ever noticed anything weird happening around you? Things that couldn’t be explained? Things that didn’t make sense?”

“Until you both came into my life, no, I was fine,” Graves scoffed. “And I’d love for it to remain that way.”

“Credence said you mentioned an accident.”

“Months ago. Woke up in a hospital, they told me I’d been in a coma after a stranger found my car crashed against a tree. I’m good as new now.”

“Do you remember the accident itself?”

“No,” Graves said, crossing his arms and tapping his feet impatiently. “They told me it was normal to have memory blanks after the shock. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

“Is there something you wish to know?” Newt shot back, and Graves clicked his tongue and took another sip of his drink.

“Can you just -” He started. “Just stop being weird, for a second, you and your friend.”

“I’m afraid not,” Newt said, laugh lines apparent around his eyes. “I’ve always been rather unconventional.”

“Yes, well. No need to drag me down with you, Mr. Scamander. Cheers.” Graves downed the rest of his coffee, intent on leaving the table before his eyes caught on a green thing peeking out of Newt’s coat.

“What the hell is that? One of your animals?”

“That's Pickett.” Newt tapped his pocket and the green thing retreated. “He has attachment issues.”

Graves nodded, as if he knew exactly what Newt was talking about. “A stick bug?”

“What?” Newt stared at him.

“A stick bug. Walking stick. That thing. It looks like one. I know a few things about animals myself, you know.”

Newt leaned in, smiling conspiratorially. “It’s not that. It’s a Bowtruckle.”

Graves shook his head. The man was a lunatic. “Say that again?”

“A Bowtruckle. Do you want to see it?”

Graves shrugged. Might as well indulge him. Newt tapped the collar of his coat again and a pair of two little green eyes peeked out at Graves. The zoologist held out his hand and Pickett climbed on it, Newt holding him in front of Graves’ face.

It was decidedly _not_ a stick bug. The creature stared at Graves, its little cheeks puffing up as it blew Graves a raspberry. Newt chided it gently before placing the Bowtruckle back on his shoulders. Graves opened his mouth and closed it again, in shock, and then he heard himself blurt out, “That’s illegal.”

Newt stilled.

“How would you know that?” He asked softly.

Graves shook his head and blinked rapidly. He had no idea where _that_ came from.

“Is Pickett a special type of bug? A new species?” He asked desperately, grasping at straws. Newt looked amused, as if Graves was providing the entertainment of his week.

“He’s not. Or he is. A magical one.”

Graves shook his head. “Magic doesn’t _exist_.”

“Then how do you explain what you saw, Mr. Graves?”  

“I.. _._ ”

“I know you can’t.” Newt finished his glass of juice. His eyes finally met Graves’ as he said, “You’re not going crazy, Mr. Graves. There’s just much more to the world than meets the eye.”

“That name again,” Graves said. “Credence called me Graves too. Why?”

“Because it is your name,” Newt said simply. “Your real name.”

“But what -”

“If you have more questions,” Newt interrupted him, digging into his coat and retrieving a pen and a little notebook, “We’re staying there.” He scribbled the name of their hotel and the address onto the paper before tearing the page away and lending it to Graves. “Try to come after seven pm, that’s usually when we both are present. We can and will provide answers to your questions, Mr. Graves. But we won’t force you. The choice is yours. If you do not come to us after a week has passed, we’ll leave. But in the meantime, we’re here.”

Newt got up and dug into his pants pocket, taking out an alarming amount of _francs_ that he deposited on the table.

“The coffee isn’t even worth half of that,” Graves said.

“Muggle money. I could never get used to it. Feel free to buy another coffee on me,” Newt said, using yet another word that Graves was supposed to understand. _Muggle_. The man was _teasing_ him on purpose, Graves was sure. Damn him if it wasn’t working.

“Wait,” he called to Newt’s retreating back. “I’m not fully convinced yet. Got anything else to add?”

Newt turned around, serious. “We have reasons to believe your ‘accident’ wasn’t an accident, Mr. Graves, but an assassination attempt. Good day to you.”

And he was out the door.

Graves looked around idly, and only then did he notice that none of the other clients seemed to be paying him any attention. In fact, none of them had so much as stared, even when Newt showed him the animal or when he talked loudly and clearly about magic. It was almost as if no one saw or heard them, and perhaps that was exactly what happened.

He raised his hand and ordered a whisky.

* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how to go about Graves and Newt's dynamic, but I'm happy with how it turned out.


	3. Sorcier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I modified this chapter sooo many times. I can't thank @Funkspiel enough for dealing with all my questions about how to make it better. Bless her. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it. Please tell me if you do <3

Graves awoke with a start, gasping. His dream was already fading, out of reach. He only remembered feeling utterly helpless, defenseless and _weak._ A few tears rolled down his cheeks, warm and wet. He belittled himself for thel, grabbed the handkerchief on his nightstand to wipe his eyes and blow his nose before casting a glance around the room. It was early. The sun was just rising, a ray of light illuminating his bedroom and casting shadows on the floating chair in the corner.

Graves froze.

Slowly, he turned his head to look back at the offensive furniture. The chair hovered above the ground a couple of meters away from him, swaying slightly as if in mockery. He paled. The book and pencil he kept at his bedside were now closer to the ceiling than the floor, showing no respect for gravity. His slippers were near the window as if trying to escape and his glasses had disappeared.

He scrambled away, his feet tangling in the sheets, and fell in an undignified heap on the floor. He ran to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and saw with his own two eyes his pen following him, passing above his shoulder and continuing its route until it bumped into the mirror.

“ _Nom de –_ “

He went back into his bedroom. Nothing had changed, and Graves did not know what to _do_. What if it stayed like this forever? How was he going to explain that to the landlord when he came to collect the rent? Graves let out a disbelieving laugh. This wasn’t normal _._ This was the fucking opposite of it. But then, so had been his life in the past few days.

Had he done this? Had he, somehow, done magic?

Or was it their fault? It had to be. This never happened to him in his forty years of life - at least he didn't think so. Had Newt spiked his coffee when he saw him? Was he drugged? Maybe he was and this was all just his mind betraying him. At least that would explain the weird stick bug from yesterday. Influenced, one could easily turn images they knew into something else, Graves reasoned. Perhaps he should take an appointment with a doctor.

_I am magic, Mr. Graves. And so are you._

Graves closed his eyes and _willed_ everything to be normal.

When he opened them, the chair was on the floor where it belonged, his slippers waited at his bedside, and his book and pen were on the table in the exact same position as he left them last night.

“... Damn."  

A derisive smile on his lips, he looked at the pen. Feeling ridiculous but needing to prove himself, Graves held out his hand towards it and wished for the object to come to him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the cold material hit his palm.

“Fuck!” Graves let it go immediately, the fountain pen rolling at his feet under the bed. “This is _not_ happening.”

_Magic is real._

"No,” Graves said to the silence while he angrily put on his pants. “It’s _not_.”

“It’s not,” he repeated, trying to convince himself as he shaved. He nicked his skin and the cupboard next to the mirror opened itself, presenting him with disinfectant and a band-aid. Graves groaned.

“It’s not,” he whispered as a croissant literally flew into his hand following a client’s order. The young lady stared at him, wide eyed, and Graves smiled and pretended nothing happened.

The day continued on like this, with little interferences that seemed utterly out of his control. It was like a floodgate had opened, and try as he might Graves couldn’t seem to rein the water in. His cigarette lit itself, his shoes tied themselves, everything seemed to have a mind of its own. It was only when Graves passed by an old man, thinking absently that the color of his coat was terrible only to watch as that coat began to bloom into a deep red that the reality of the situation fully sank in.

“ _Putain. De bordel. De merde!_ ” He cursed aloud, scaring an old lady that crossed the street hurriedly to avoid him.

Resigned, Graves slipped his hand into his pocket and took out the little piece of paper Newt had given him yesterday. The address of the hotel stared back at him innocently.

_We can and will provide answers to your questions, Mr. Graves._

“You had better make it worth my time, Mr. Scamander,” he muttered, changing directions and heading towards _Rue Cortot._

Why couldn’t his life be simple?

 

xXx

 

“Ah-ah!” Newt yelled in triumph as he finally got a hold of Albus, the little creature trying to escape his grip. “No more escaping the case, you little bugger! I’ve had enough! You have a nest full of shiny things already!”

Someone knocked on the door and Credence hurried to answer it. Newt looked up in surprise.

“Mr. Graves!” He heard Credence’s delighted voice say and Newt quickly put the niffler back into his suitcase.

Graves walked into the room, nervously twirling the grey hat in his hands as he took in his surroundings. Credence looked flushed, hair in disarray and Newt was no better. The hotel room was in utter chaos. Papers and quills were strewn on the floor, an opened bottle of ink was dripping its contents onto the carpet - but neither men seemed to care about the fine they’d have to pay the hotel for ruining the floor. The cabinet was knocked over and the little chandelier swung dangerously on the ceiling.

Scamander passed in front of him, holding a couple of books in his hands and dropping them on a chair. “I must say I’m surprised, Mr. Graves. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Yes.” Graves cleared his throat. “Things happened in the meantime.”

“Oh? What sort of things?”

“Do you want tea, Mr. Graves?” Credence asked him ever so politely, and Graves nodded.

“May I ask what the hell happened here?”

“Oh, nothing much. My niffler escaped again.”

“Your what?”

“I keep all my animals safe in my case, you see,” Newt said, waving vaguely in the direction of the bedroom. “But Albus can slip out no matter how many locks I put on the thing.”

Graves took this in. “Let me get this straight. You keep animals in a suitcase? Should I report you to the police for animal abuse?”

Newt looked utterly offended. “Goodness, no! It’s bigger on the inside. I’ll show you if I have the chance. Now, Credence, could you help me?”

“Of course.”

Credence deposited a tray with tea and scones on the low table in front of the sofa and came to stand beside Newt. Both of them took their sticks out again and Graves instinctively stepped back.

“On the count of three,” Newt said after rolling up his sleeves. “One, two, three!”

The two men waved their wands in perfect unison, following the same curvy movement and before Graves’ very eyes the room put itself back together. The ink flew into its bottle, the stain disappearing from the floor as if it never existed. The cabinet stood up straight again and various papers fell into a neat pile in Newt’s outstretched hand. One last flick of Newt’s wand and the chandelier stopped swinging.

“Still doubting magic, Mr. Graves?” Newt dared ask with a cheeky smile.

“No,” Graves said, leaning against the wall to support himself, everything that he knew about the world well and truly in tatters. “Can’t say I do.”

Newt walked away. Graves looked at Credence, at a loss, and Credence patted the space next to him on the sofa. He sat down.

“Newt! Tea!”

“Coming!” Newt emerged from the bedroom a second later wearing a blue, knitted sweater and took a seat on the stool in front of them. “Enjoy the tea, Mr. Graves. It comes right from England.”

Graves cleared his throat. “So you’re British?”

“What gave it away?”

“Stop mocking me,” Graves scowled. “I’m trying to make sense of everything here. I still don’t know anything about you two, except that you both barged into my life and turned it upside down.”

“How come you speak French, Mr. Graves?” Credence asked, curious.

“French mother, Irish father. What are those?” Graves indicated the wands with a tilt of his chin.

“They’re wands, Mr. Graves.”

“Wands,” Graves repeated. “Wands and magic. Like a fairytale.”

“Indeed,” Newt said, taking a sip of his tea. “Except you’re not dreaming.”

“I couldn’t have made this up even if I tried,” Graves muttered, and Newt beamed at him. “What?”

“Nothing. You remind me of someone. He was like you. Wouldn’t believe his eyes at first, and then he became a friend.”

“Oh? What happened to him?”

“It’s a long story,” Newt said dismissively, but Graves didn’t miss the sudden edge to his voice. Whatever happened to this other guy, it couldn’t have been good.

“Why did you come here tonight, Mr. Graves?” Newt changed the subject. “You mentioned things happening.”

Graves’ only response was to squint at Newt’s hair and turn it a bright pink, which clashed horribly with his freckles. Credence choked on his tea. Graves grinned, proud of his new talent.

“What?” Newt asked, oblivious.

“Why don’t you go look in a mirror, Mr. Scamander?” Graves said nonchalantly. Disconcerted, the zoologist stood up and walked to the bathroom. He came back a few seconds later, his face as pink as his hair. “Turn it back!”

“I’m not sure you deserve it,” Graves teased, and Credence couldn’t help it - he burst out laughing. Newt huffed.

“How long have you known you could do this?”

“It started this morning,” Graves said seriously, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s been happening the whole day. I can’t control it.”

“Of course not,” Newt said with a nod. “You were a highly powerful wizard, Mr. Graves.”

“I was?”

“Yes. Quite.”

“Is that what the two of you are as well?” Graves asked, trying to process this new information.

“I’d say you’re above us in terms of power, but only slightly. Credence is…kind of a special case. The apprenticeship is a pretense. I’m helping him learn to control his magic.”

“Do you think you could teach me?” Graves said, brown eyes meeting green. “I’m jeopardizing my job here. I can’t afford to accidentally attack a client with baguettes simply because they pissed me off, and a _lot_ of them piss me off.”

“Then why do you keep the job?”

“Money,” Graves said, rolling his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Why don’t you try to do magic with a wand?” Credence interrupted them. “Here. Consider it your first lesson.”

The boy held his wand out towards Graves and looked at him expectantly. Newt was now eyeing Graves as well, unbothered by this new development, as if he waited to know if Graves was going to embarrass himself or blow up the hotel. Graves opened his mouth to protest and closed it. Slowly, hesitantly, he took Credence’s wand.

Warmth unlike anything he’d ever known spread from his fingers down to his toes, making his hair stand on end and leaving him breathless. Newt summoned a quill to him and placed it on the table in front of Graves. “Try to make it move.”

Graves raised the wand and pointed it at the object. The quill went skyrocketing through the room, Newt ducking his head and barely avoiding its path before it embedded itself into the wall. Graves dropped the wand immediately, spooked, but both Newt and Credence looked amazed.

“This is good, Mr. Graves,” Newt praised, standing up to look at the new indent in the wallpaper. “You’ll need to learn to control yourself, but this is good news. Very good news.”

“How so?” Graves was still reeling over the fact that he’d nearly blinded the man with a _quill_ and Newt seemed totally unperturbed. What did this man _do_ for a living?

“You still have magic in you,” Newt said simply. “I thought you didn’t.”

“I don’t - “ Graves sighed and passed a hand over his face. He could actually _feel_ the newfound magic within him, thrumming underneath his skin, a comforting presence he hadn’t realized existed until now. “I don’t understand.”

Credence and Newt looked at each other. Then Newt said, “What do you remember?”

“What do you mean?”

“About your life. What do you remember?”

Graves looked uncomfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Newt said. “Tell us about you. About that famous accident. Mr. Graves, we have reasons to believe someone tampered with your mind and made you forget who you are, made you forget that magic even existed.”

“Why?”

Newt hesitated. “Because - you were - you _are_ \- a highly important person.”

“So you both knew me from…Before?”

“Yes,” Credence said. “You helped me.”

Graves turned to Newt. “And you?”

“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Graves,” Newt said, a little smile playing on his lips as if the words were a joke Graves wasn’t privy to. “And you’re important to Credence. How I met you doesn’t matter. I care about who you are now, who you were and how you’re going to navigate the two.”

Graves stared. “Am I another animal to be studied, Mr. Scamander?”

Newt didn’t reply.

Graves conceded.

“There’s not much to tell...”

 

xXx

 

_31st September, 1926._

___

_There were noises around him. He tried to focus on them, tried to escape wherever he was. His entire body felt heavy, as if trapped under a thick fog. He moved one of his fingers, and must have succeeded because the voices quieted before getting more excited._

_"....he..."_

_"...wa…. vre…"_

_He felt a hand on his arm, a voice getting closer. He peered at the ceiling through his eyelashes and met the stark lights of the room._

_It was too much and he welcomed the darkness again._

 

_xXx_

 

_The second time he woke up, he managed to sit up and talk._

_The nurse, Julie, gave him a glass of water, sat on the edge of his bed and told him softly that he’d been in a coma for over three months._

_“Why?” He croaked out. “How?”_

_"An accident. A blond man carried you in his arms through the threshold. It was a novel worthy scene, his arrival,” she said, cute dimples forming around her mouth as she smiled. “He told us he’d found you in a crashed car on the side of the road. He saved your life. You were in pretty bad shape, we thought you wouldn’t make it.”_

_“Well,” Graves started before coughing loudly. The nurse rubbed soothing circles on his back to help him catch his breath. “I guess I should thank him. Did he have a name?”_

_“Nikolaj. He didn’t tell us his last name.”_

_Graves paused. “What is_ my _name?”_

_“Percival Lefevre,” the nurse told him with certainty. “It’s on your identity card. We found it in your wallet with quite a bit of money.”_

_Graves frowned. His last name somehow didn’t feel right, but he let it go. His head was pounding, and the nurse seemed to sense it because she placed a hand on his cheek. Graves leaned into the gesture, welcoming her cold touch. “Get some rest, Mr. Lefevre.”_

_“Didn’t I just sleep for three months?” Graves joked, eyelids already drooping as he let himself sink into the mattress._

_“Indeed. But you’re not out of trouble yet. That’ll take a long time.”_

_By the end of her sentence, Graves was already snoring. The nurse smiled and walked away to take care of another patient._

 

_xXx_

 

_Time passed slowly, at the hospital._

_They told him the extent of the damage. Cracked ribs, bruises and cuts everywhere, a sprained ankle and a broken wrist. He also seemed to be malnourished and dehydrated, but, as they said, that probably had nothing to do with the accident and everything to do with his lifestyle._

_What kind of life did he lead?_

_He couldn’t remember. It infuriated him._

_“It’ll come back,” Julie said one night, four weeks after their first conversation. Graves was sitting on the floor near his bed, hugging his pillow. “You probably will never remember the accident itself, but you should recover most of your other memories. You’re healing pretty quickly, you know.”_

_“I am?”_

_Julie crouched down to whisper conspiratorially. “They say you’re a miracle. You shouldn’t have been able to walk again so soon.”_

_Graves placed his hand on her waist and kept it there. “I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember what I even did before. What job I had. Who I was. My friends. Do you think I had friends?” He pouted._

_“Of course you did, idiot.”_

_“I remember my parents dying when I was young,” Graves continued. Julie made a move to speak but he shushed her. “I only have - snippets. Bit and pieces of deconstructed memories struggling together to make sense. Scenes from my childhood. Teenage years. Practically_ nothing _from adulthood. It’s like there’s a huge blank somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and forty. And the more I try to - dig deeper, the more it all slips away.”_

_“Then create some,” Julie whispered back._

_“What?”_

_“Forge new memories,” she said, guiding his hand to cup the supple curve of her breast._

_“Julie…”_

_She placed a finger on his lips before replacing it with her own mouth, slowly, giving him a chance to draw back. He didn’t. The kiss was languid and wet and warm and everything Graves needed. He gasped._

_“Live,” she murmured, her fingers trailing down his neck._

 

_xXx_

 

“The doctors let me go after two months, baffled by my recovery. But I didn’t even know where I lived. I had _nothing_. No one ever came to inquire about my health while I was at the hospital. So Julie wrote to her grandma to give me a temporary place to stay. I showed up on the old woman’s doorstep with a letter, was welcomed and started looking for a job the very next day. The bakery was the first place that wanted me, so that’s where I’ve been working since and as soon as I had enough I moved out,” Graves concluded.

Silence greeted him.

Newt steepled his finger under his chin and looked at Graves. “There is a spell,” he said slowly, “That allows the caster to erase or modify the victim’s memories to a great extent. That would explain the huge blank you mentioned. But it doesn’t explain why you have no recollection of magic at all, or the missing pieces from your childhood and upper years. No, there’s something else.” Newt stood up abruptly. “I have a letter to write. Excuse me.”

“...Is he always like this?” Graves asked Credence as Newt disappeared.

“Most of the time, yes,” Credence admitted, the corners of his lips turning up. “He is calmer and more considerate with his creatures than with humans.”

“I see.”

Credence cleaned the remnants of their tea with a flick of his wand. “It’s late, Mr. Graves. You should go home.”

“Are you throwing me out?”

“As long as you promise to come back.”

"I think I will," Graves said after a moment of consideration. "I think I will. It seems I have much to learn from you both." 

 

 

* * *

  
End chapter three ! 

The lovely and talented [@questionartbox](http://questionartbox.tumblr.com/post/159765454575/id-recognize-that-face-anywhere-needed-to) drew fanart for chapter one of this fic !  _❤︎_

__

_“I’d recognize that face anywhere.”_

 

As you can imagine, I haven't stopped screaming since I saw it. Look it. Look at his face. I die. 

Send her some love on tumblr, the link to her post is in the name  _❤︎_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun quoting several things in this chapter. Lines from the movie, and also lines from trailers and deleted scenes we never had the pleasure to see on screen. 
> 
> "There's something else, something I haven't told you. The man I warned you about is getting closer," is a line Graves says in one of the first trailers for the movie. 
> 
> The "Come here" is a reference to that damned Goldgraves deleted scene where Graves """"casually""" wipes mustard from Tina's lips with his embroidered handkerchief.
> 
> Also, Graves is bi af. 
> 
> Cheers <3
> 
> \---- 
> 
> UPDATE AS OF THE 17/05/2017 : 
> 
> I've had a writer's block on chapter 4 of this story and threw myself into Guilty instead - you can check the story out on my profile - and now that I've written it... Well. I know I can do much, much better for this story. 
> 
> So I'll easy myself back into writing it and probably take my time to write everything out in order to make something that I can be proud of on the long term :) which means i've no idea when i'll update again, but when I do - it'll be worth it. 
> 
> Thank you <3


	4. Madame LeRoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writer's block a bitch, but i am back and this fic is not abandonned. i have two big projects i want to work on next, but i have decided i can't do them once my WIPS aren't finished. 
> 
> SO, French!Graves is back :D you may want to re-read the previous chapters as I've made some light changes, and took out a chunk at the end of chapter 3. it has all been revised. next chapter should hopefully be up sometime next week. this chapter is edited, but unbetaed. 
> 
> enjoy.

_Previously :_

_“The doctors let me go after two months, baffled by my recovery. But I didn’t even know where I lived. I had nothing . No one ever came to inquire about my health while I was at the hospital. So Julie wrote to her grandma to give me a temporary place to stay. I showed up on the old woman’s doorstep with a letter, was welcomed and started looking for a job the very next day. The bakery was the first place that wanted me, so that’s where I’ve been working since and as soon as I had enough I moved out,” Graves concluded._

_Silence greeted him._

_Newt steepled his finger under his chin and looked at Graves. “There is a spell,” he said slowly, “That allows the caster to erase or modify the victim’s memories to a great extent. That would explain the huge blank you mentioned. But it doesn’t explain why you have no recollection of magic at all, or the missing pieces from your childhood and upper years. No, there’s something else.” Newt stood up abruptly. “I have a letter to write. Excuse me.”_

_“...Is he always like this?” Graves asked Credence as Newt disappeared._

_“Most of the time, yes,” Credence admitted, the corners of his lips turning up. “He is calmer and more considerate with his creatures than with humans.”_

_“I see.”_

_Credence cleaned the remnants of their tea with a flick of his wand. “It’s late, Mr. Graves. You should go home.”_

_“Are you throwing me out?”_

_“As long as you promise to come back.”_

_"I will," Graves said after a moment of consideration. "I think I will. It seems I have much to learn from you both."_

* * *

 

He was on the doorstep when Newt called him back. “Mr. Graves, wait a moment.”

Percival turned on his heels patiently, his hat already pulled low over his head. “Yes?”

There were smudges of ink all over Newt’s fingers, Percival noted as Newt ran his hands through his hair, messing the curls further. “I am writing a letter to a former teacher of mine regarding what is happening to you. I deal with wounded animals, not humans, you see, and messing with a wizard’s mind is _entirely_ out of my area of expertise. But we have people in the magical community that focus on this - mind magic, control of thoughts, et caetera. I hope this man will help us find someone with such skills to help you, someone living nearby with chance.” He smiled tightly. “But in the meantime, we need to do something about your magic.”

“...Yes.” Graves straightened up. Newt had spoken so fast it took Percival efforts to make sense of all the words. “I’m a danger, unbridled like this. I have noticed.”

“You have both proven that you could be very aware and in control of your magic -”

“By turning Newt’s hair pink,” Credence reminded them with a light smile. Newt blushed.

“Quite. And yet, you also seems wild and unfocused. Your magic by moments feels like a child's before he was taught to harness it. So we’re going to have to see what you can and cannot do, and help you control it. Magic reacts strongly to emotions, you see - even to simple thoughts. It is dangerous to let it develop that way, for you might do things you will regret.” Newt cast a glance at Credence as he said it. The young man's expression had grown somber and distant. “I think even France has Aurors. They're the wizard police. If you are noticed doing magic wildly and endangering the lives of muggles - that is, non-magical folks - around you, then…”

“He’d be arrested.”

“Would that be so bad?” Percival asked, frowning deeply in confusion. “You’re telling me I belong in that community. That I was, once - a powerful wizard. Why would being found out be a bad thing?”

“The problem, Mr. Graves,” Newt said, shifting on his feet, “Is that the magical community is at war. The wizard who I suspect made you forget the life you had is a criminal. I think, for the time being, that it would be wise not to let him know yet that you are getting in touch with the magical world again. Not when you’re, forgive me, not when you’re so powerless. The two of you were enemies.”

“Sweet Christ.” Percival rubbed his temples with his fingers, sighing deeply. He had a headache, getting worse by the second. This was so jumbled and just plain upsetting. “ _Je comprends rien... Ecoutez, vous -_ you agreed to teach me, right? I can come by this weekend. I can take a day of sick leave if I must. If it helps me not kill the most annoying clients with baguettes.”

“Yes.” Newt nodded his agreement. “That is settled. We don't have much choice. I will finish up my letter and send it to the right man. In the time it takes for him to reply - which shouldn’t be more than a couple of days, we’ll try to help you with your magic.”

“Good, good.” A detail made Graves pause. “Hang on - a couple of days? Where does this man live?”

“Scotland,” Newt said, surprised. “Why?”

“The French post office isn’t that fast. Do you have a magical mailing system that defies all normal expectations?”

“We use owls,” Newt said bemusedly.

Percival stared. “Owls. The flying nightbird with big eyes.”

“Yes. Owls.”

Percival shook his head to clear it. “I think I've had enough for the night. Mr. Scamander. Credence.” Percival threw on his coat and nodded at the boy. “Have a good night.”

Credence unlocked the door with a spell and Percival stepped out into the dark corridor of the hotel, muttering in french under his breath. “ _Des hiboux. Ils me fatiguent..._ ”

Newt smiled, closing the door behind him. “That went better than expected.”

Credence tilted his head, approving. “He’s still so strong.”

“How so?” Newt held his hand up in the direction of their bedroom, and a piece of parchments with scribbled words on it flew into his palm, as well as a quill and a bottle of ink. Credence cleared the table off its books for him and Newt settled down, re-reading his letter to Dumbledore and chewing on his lips as he thought of the best ways to word his sentences without revealing too much.

“His magic is still within him.”

“Oh, you couldn’t get rid of a wizard’s magic if you made a deal with the Devil. You’re living-proof of that, my dear boy.” Newt glanced at him, keeping his tone light. “It is part of us no matter what we do, just like our beating heart. It's in our blood. You can’t take it away - it would be akin to murder.”

“So he still has magic, but not all of it.”

Newt frowned, setting his quill down. “You can’t syphon it away either. It is probably kept under lock and keys, although I don’t know what curse could make it that way. It must be painful for him to live with, too. Hopefully, Professor Dumbledore will have more theories than I do.”

Credence fell silent, and minutes ticked by.

“It’s late,” he finally said. “I will make dinner.”

Newt nodded, busy copying his letter down again so it would be presentable.

-

_Thursday, 9th February 1928_

_Dear Prof. Dumbledore,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Both C. and I are spending a couple of days in France. I have encountered Mr. B., a wise man whose knowledge regarding various magical creatures is extremely valuable, and I hope to get the second book of Fantastic Beasts published within a few months (although I have yet to find it a title)._

_On another hand, I find myself with a problem. I cannot tell you the name of the person concerned, for they wish to remain anonymous, but we have reasons to believe they’ve been obliviated to a great extent for yet an unknown motive. As is understandable, they now wish to regain those memories, but I’m afraid that is not my area of expertise._

_As a skilled legilimens yourself, surely you must be acquainted with people who would not object to becoming involved in such a peculiar case._

_Give my love to Fawkes,_

_Yours truly,_

_Newton Scamander._

 

_-_

There was a delicious smell coming from their bedroom. Newt stretched languidly, his back popping. He rolled the parchment tightly and pointed his wand at it, spelling it so only the eyes of its addressee would see it.

He stood up and walked to the bedroom with his letter in tow. There was a candle at his bedside; he grabbed it and lit it up, inclining it so the hot wax would fall over paper. Once a little puddle had formed he spelled it again, engraving the Scamander family crest on the wax and effectively sealing the letter shut. It was ready to be sent. He placed it on his bed with caution, and joined Credence down into the suitcase to eat dinner.

-  


_Friday, 10_ _th_ _February 1928_

_Dearest Newton,_

_Fawkes has died, and been reborn just yesterday. As for me, the weight of my duties never ceases to amaze the old man that I now am._

_Minerva wishes you well. However, she would like my name counterpart to give her back the shiny bracelet he stole the last time you came to visit. It is a family heirloom._

_In regards to your letter, I am thrilled you came to me for advice. It sounds like a rather delicate affair you find yourself in, once again. I do wonder sometimes whether you will stop seeking trouble. Or perhaps it is trouble who finds you? No matter. I would offer my personal help, but I cannot, alas, afford to travel at the moment. Trouble lurks at the Wizengamot._

_I have enclosed to this letter a portkey which will take you to someone I trust. They live in Northern France and are an esteemed colleague of mine. They owe me a personal favor. I have warned them of your arrival, dear Newton. They will be glad to know the person whose mind is troubling them, as well._

_I hope to hear more from you soon. Give Credence my regards._

_Very sincerely yours,_

 

 _Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration Teacher at_ _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._  


-

The portkey was a little coin. French muggle money, inconspicuous. Dumbledore's letter destroyed itself as soon as Newt was done reading it, and he watched intently as blue, painless flames licked his fingers.

He had but a few moments to prepare before the portkey activated itself. Credence had gone out, so Newt left him a little note on the low table in the main room. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his bowtie, grabbed his suitcase on the floor and mentally braced himself. His wand was resting securely in the holster strapped to his right forearm, ready to be drawn if necessary.

He held the coin in the palm of his hand. It glowed, a bright blue that had Newt grimacing in dread. He closed his fist around it and felt the violent tug at his navel as the Portkey took him away. Words, colors, sensations - all blurred together as he travelled hundreds of miles in a few minutes. He tightened his grip on the handle of his suitcase to seek an anchor, feeling nauseous.

-

 _A garden._ Flowing green leaves, vines and beds of roses stretching around him. It was all he could see. The vegetation was so thick light barely reached him, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day. There was no way to know where he was. He took a first step North, progressing cautiously, his wand at the ready.

He sensed the magical barrier a split second before he walked right through it. Cold drenched him from head to toe, as if he’d thrown himself in the Arctic ocean. He shuddered helplessly and cast a warming charm on himself, feeling momentarily dazed. He held his hands up, his wand in view.

A manor was revealed to him, all white stones and high steeples. The main door was opened, and a person waited for him there, bathed in sunlight. Newt couldn’t make out their face, but the hourglass figure was that of a woman. She held something long in her hand, and Newt tensed. But she merely brought it up to her face, and Newt understood that it was a simple cigarette holder.

Either the woman was very confident that she could hold her own in a fight, or she was not alone. Or, perhaps, the manor was laden with enough traps to protect her should Newt reveal his true face. He had no such thing to do, of course, but it was best to stay cautious in these times. He did not lower his arms.

“You must be Mr. Scamander,” the woman called to him. Her voice was deeper than he'd expected, laden with a thick French accent. “I was warned you’d come.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied evenly. “May I step closer?”

The woman nodded. Newt approached, finally leaving the garden to step up the stairs leading to the manor’s entrance. He lowered his hands. The woman breathed, cigarette smoke curling between them as she took him in. Her eyes swept over his figure from head to toe, making Newt flush slightly and duck his head before he caught himself. This was not the time to act meek.

“Is that the famous suitcase?” She said with interest. “Dumbledore told me many things about you, Mr. Scamander. I must admit you look nothing like what I imagined.”

Newt smiled politely, holding his hand out. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madam.”

The woman accepted his gesture briefly. Her hand was cold in his, her nails perfectly manicured, painted red. “I'm Irène LeRoy,” she said proudly, her last name rolling of her tongue with gusto. “Private legilimens. Come on in. We have much to discuss.”

Newt followed her. The heavy oak doors of the manor closed behind them with a resounding boom, and he watched with interest as Irène waved her hand through the air. The series of chains and locks strapped to the inside of the door moved, rolled and clicked together, until the door was sealed shut once again.

“Do you drink wine, Mr. Scamander?” Irène inquired politely.

“Call me Newt. Not often, no, but I do like the taste.”

“Red or white?”

“I have a preference for white.”

“An excellent choice.” Irène led the both of them to the parlor, walking quickly. Newt couldn't help, but be impressed by the sheer size of each room they passed by. The parlor itself was bathed in tones of rose gold and dark brown. The low table was decorated with a lacey tablecloth, and a bouquet of white roses stood bright above it. Newt took a seat on the chair she pointed him to, while the legilimens moved to settle on the sofa opposite him. Her wand was strapped to her thigh, pressing against her silk pants; she took it out and waved it, and two glasses flew from a cabinet to Newt's left to hover in the air in front of them.

“What are we celebrating?” Irène said lightly as she poured the both of them wine, holding the tip of her wand above her own glass.

Newt took his drink once it was full, and clicked it with hers. “Is it safe to speak in here?”

“Do you think Dumbledore would have sent you here if it weren’t?”

“Irène,” Newt said. “Is it safe?”

She stopped smiling, abandoning her coyness. Three of her fingers tapped against the glass of her drink in quick succession, and Newt felt the change immediately, like a blanket of snow falling above the room, quieting the sounds he heard from the outside. “This manor will let no one in unless I ask for it,” she said seriously. “We’re as safe as we can be.”

“Good.” Newt relaxed minutely. “Then I suppose there is no point beating around the bush. Percival Graves is _alive_.” Irène went very still. “You must have heard about him in the papers.” Newt inclined his head. “Big international scandal. _Gellert Grindelwald impersonates the Director of Magical Security of MACUSA,_ and no one notices.”

“I remember,” she murmured dejectedly. “I remember pitying the poor man.”

“He wouldn't need your pity now.”

“How is he alive?” She asked, leaning forward. “They searched for him. They saw him dead.”

“For all the world, he was. But it seems like Gellert Grindelwald had other plans.” Newt posed his glass back on the table. “Plans I cannot understand.”

“What happened to him?” Irène said carefully. “What do you know?”

“I am not sure,” Newt admitted. “He’s been thoroughly obliviated, that much is certain. The damage runs deep. When I met him, he behaved for all the world like a muggle. He has no memories of magic, he was not even aware that he possessed magic himself. You will have to evaluate what was done to his mind.”

Irène frowned deeply, unsettled. “He has forgotten the magical world?”

“Entirely.”

“How is this possible? That man has lived with magic his whole life.”

“He mentioned he had blanks in his mind, and only vague recollections of his youth and teenage years.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said, agitated now. “To erase magic from his mind - every minor incident, every _single_ use of magic must have been erased as well, or it wouldn’t have worked. But even if Grindelwald managed to take his memories away, his magic remains _there_. He’d be confused and lost when he figured out he could use magic afterwards. He’d be unbridled. He’d be dangerous. Prone to self-destruction, lost in a world that is not his own. And yet -”

“And yet that’s not what Grindelwald wanted to happen,” Newt said gravely. “Because his magic is gone as well. He is a wizard wearing a muggle’s skin.”

“His magic can't have disappeared,” Irène said with wide eyes - horror lacing her voice. “That’s impossible.”

“He lives like a muggle. However,” Newt added hesitantly, “The simple fact of being exposed to magic again seems to have woke something in him. He is prone to bursts of power.”

“Like a child.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You showed a muggle magic?”

“Accidentally,” Newt said quickly. “And he’s not a muggle - that is the whole issue.”

Irène took another long sip of her drink, barely grimacing at the taste. “How does he fare in the muggle world?”

“Rather well,” Newt muttered. “He has a place to live, he has a job. He must have friends. But he seems distressed by his complete lack of memories.”

“Who wouldn't be?” She stared at him. “He’s tried to rebuild himself a life from scratch.”

“He has.”

“This is a lot to take in at once, Mr. Scamander,” the legilimens said, still frowning. “But I’d be a very bad liar if I said I wasn’t interested in this case. A complete loss of identity, for a man who once held himself so high.” She nodded to herself. “It is fascinating.”

Newt smiled wryly. “Should I bring him here, then?”

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.”

Newt raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry? With all due respects, I will not force him to take a Portkey every night to join you here. He would be sick.”

“No, no.” She made a grand, dismissive gesture. “Don’t be silly. First off, meeting him everyday will not be necessary. I doubt either he or I can afford it anyway. Secondly, I have a flat in Paris myself. I will simply move here. I meant to visit a few places in the city for research.”

“That would be ingenious,” Newt said with a relieved smile. “And much more practical for everyone concerned.”

“Talk to him,” she said. “I shall be in Paris next week, the time it takes to make all the necessary arrangements. I will see what I can do for him after that first meeting.”

“Will you be able to help him?”

“I cannot say, Newton,” she admitted, clearly not fond of the idea of being helpless. “But I am determined to try. It all depends on how badly his mind has been tampered with. From what you’ve told me, there is quite a lot to fear. And,” she added. “I will give the man a choice after that first session. Recovering his memories will be painful, both physically and mentally. He might very well break under the pressure. I need him to be aware of that. If he is happy living the life he does now, then all we should do is obliviate him again, and let him go his way.”

“It would not be just,” Newt murmured, knowing she spoke righteously.

“No, but it will be his choice.”

Newt nodded, biting his lips.

As troubling as the situation was - if Mr. Graves decided he wanted to forget his old life completely, deliberately - contrary to what Grindelwald imposed on him - who was Newt to tell him no? Was it a good thing for him to try and recover his past? Newt had no idea what the man had gone through, but he imagined it could not be anything pleasant. Graves had gone to war. He'd worked for the government, been in a position of higher power. He’d been _Grindelwald's_ prisoner.

If the weight of his memories proved to be too much to bear - what would Graves do?

He was not sure, either, how Credence would fare if Percival _chose_ to forget his existence.

“Somehow, I don’t think he will take that option,” he finally said, trying to smile and nearly succeeding. “It seems unlike him.”

“From what I know of this kind of man, it does as well. The simple fact that you’re here today means he is willing to go through pain to get his life back. Or perhaps, he has not realized yet what it means.” Irène rose up and cleared her throat. “Have you finished your glass? I need to go to the _Palais de l’Elysée_ soon. I am consulting with some ministers who desperately need to learn occlumency.”

Newt hurried to swallow what was left of his drink, recognizing the clear dismissal for what it was. He coughed a little and she waited patiently, having the good grace not to say anything.

“Thank you for receiving me,” he finally managed to say. “I, hm, I suppose I’ve taken enough of your time. Do you have - something I could use as a portkey to get back home?” ”

“Oh, of course.” A delicate hand rose up to reach inside her pants pocket, taking out a singular hairpin. “I don’t have much use for those these days.”

“Ah, but short hair _is_ in fashion,” Newt said with a smile. “I think it suits you.”

“So do I.” She smiled back sweetly. Newt stood up with ease, holding his hand out so she could shake it again.

“You are aware, Newton,” she said as she dropped the hairpin into his hand instead, “That Albus, the meddling man that he is, asked me to tell him who the mysterious person in need of help was.”

“I’d have been surprised if he didn’t,” Newt said, shaking his head.

“Should I tell him?” She asked, tilting her head.

“No.” Newt said firmly. “I will do it myself if he deigns to visit me. Letters can be too easily intercepted.”

“Very well. You’re due to leave in a couple of minutes. Do tell Mr. Graves I look forward to meeting him in person,” she said lightly. “He seems like an interesting man.”

Newt looked down at her. “Do not pry into his mind too much, fascinating though it may be.”

“If that's what you wanted, you shouldn't have gone to a legilimens for help.” She stepped closer, placing her hands on his chest and lowering her voice. “But when I’m with him, I promise that whatever happens in the room will stay in the room. I am a professional.”

“Of course.” Newt stepped back. “Good day to you, Miss LeRoy.”

“And to you.”

The portkey glowed, and Newt disappeared.

-

 

_Saturday, 11th of February 1928_

  


_Dear Prof. Dumbledore,_

_My sincerest apologies to Prof. McGonagall. I am filled with shame, but I have managed to retrieve the bracelet Albus stole. Please, let her know that she will get it back in a couple of days via parcel. I will take the quickest owls I can find at the post office._

_I am very glad to hear you are doing well. Has Fawkes found a mate yet? I had plans to travel to China next month, I could find him one - if he is amenable, that is._

_I have had the pleasure to meet your colleague for tea in Paris. They are charming, and seem to have enough wits to withstand a storm._

_I can only hope their efforts will not be in vain._

_I have decided to stay in France until the end of the month. Perhaps you could find time for me in your schedule - I do have a few questions about the properties of dragon blood I think only you might be able to answer. It is rather necessary for my next book._

_Yours,_

 

_Newton Scamander._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt stole the show, but next chapter will have plenty of Percy. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think ! Comments make my heart happy and keep the writing going <3


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